


Rin Redux

by Miss_I_Know



Category: Naruto
Genre: Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Insert, Team as Family, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_I_Know/pseuds/Miss_I_Know
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incredibly indulgent Naruto SI/OC/Self-Insert fanfiction. A story filled with ninja love, talking puppy dogs, Minato being incredibly polite (and scary), explosions, a lot of threatening of eyeballs, overprotective and clingy friends, good food, recovering from emotionally abusive relationships, cute babies, choosing your own family, medical jargon, and using the power of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction Arc: Episode 1

I.

 

It was cold. So cold it was burning in the places that could still feel. I’d stopped shaking which I was glad of. When I shook it jarred the deep pain in my chest. No pain was better. Except it wasn’t. The shaking was important because...because…

 

The end of the thought was gone as something warm and wet hit my cheek. I opened my eyes--when had I closed them, I couldn’t remember--to take in a familiar pair of golden brown eyes on a long fuzzy face. There was grey along the muzzle that pressed against my face vibrating with a whine I slowly took in. The world was slow, draggy like waking from a too long sleep.

 

There was another sharp whine and I opened my eyes again. I couldn’t remember closing them. I tried to focus on the dog touching me. It settled against my body, I could feel it jarring me as it laid against me. There was no pain which should be concerning...Another lick had me focusing on the face of the dog I knew.

 

An old familiar face made something relax and tense in me. I loved this animal, but I was afraid? Not of the dog no, it was...For the dog! I clung to that thought. It was because there was something wrong. The dog--was it a boy or a girl--was hurt and it needed help. A sharp energizing flash of fear leaped in my chest at that and I tried to move my arms to touch the dog to pet it--him, her--and check over it, but they wouldn’t cooperate. There wasn’t anything there to feel even though I knew there were arms there. They wouldn’t move though.

 

Another whine and I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came was a choking rasp. I swallowed throat dry and sore and tried again.

 

“It’s okay. Shh,” I told the animal, which gave another whine and tucked its head under my chin laying across my chest. “I-I’m f-fine. Y-You’ll be alright boy.” The name came in a slow realization. “I-It’s ok-kay T-Tob-by.”

 

Toby. Aboy. I’d had him since I was nineteen, my mind supplied. Already old and worn when I found him. He’d been like me, sad and alone and hurt, but he’d approached me tail not wagging but gentle as he licked my hand and it had been the first time I’d smiled in months. We’d been together five years. More came back slowly, too slowly for it to be alright.

 

“T-Toby.” I said voice shaking an stuttering in the cold. “I h-hit my h-head.”

 

Concussion. My mind supplied followed by a list of causes, treatments, and side effects that was grounding and familiar. Why did I know all this? Because I was a nurse. That was why, my mind clung to the idea the word bringing up images of thick anatomy books filled with ink and comments, dirty scrubs thrown across a chair instead of into the laundry basket, and a long hallway with doors each with names attached and people inside. A feeling of possessive pride also came with the images. It was mine I’d worked hard for it. I liked helping people and it was something no one could take from me.

 

I was here because of something medical. Something medical and Toby. The flash of fear came with the image of a dark brown and grey dog curled onto a quilt and a prescription of pills. Toby was sick. The idea explained the fear, but not why I was outside. We should both be inside. He shouldn’t be cold. He was too old, too tired and sick. He needed to be warm. He needed medicine. He needed a vet--

 

A quick flash of panic and a phone call and car keys.

 

That was it I realized with a slow coming feeling of triumphant. We were out because I was taking Toby to the vet, but something was wrong and we weren’t in the car anymore. Something hurt inside, though I didn’t feel pain anymore. There was wrongness inside and out and my body wasn’t listening like it should. I wasn’t thinking right or moving right. Thinking...thinking was hard…

 

Sleep, sleep sounded nice. Closing my eyes and drifting. When I woke up it would be better. Toby and I would move and he would be fine. Just a little break from thinking and trying. Just a little sleep.

 

There was a sharp whine and my eyes opened again there was something cold and wet in my eyelashes. Snow, I noticed. That explained the cold. Snow and cold. The whine didn’t stop and I looked down to the brown-and-grey fur, but it wasn’t vibrating. It was a different kind of whine I realized. Familiar though. Just as familiar as Toby.

 

Not a whine, a siren. Then I saw the light blue and red right on the edge of my vision. The lights stayed and the siren stopped nearby and stayed without. But there was new noises. A crunching--feet on snow--that came towards me.

 

Toby made a not whine--growl--that vibrated heavily.

 

“Shh,” I slurred. My tongue was heavy and hard. My shaky word had been easier. It was too thick to make any now.

 

“Shh.” I told Toby again and I saw a face above me. The mouth moved, but I didn’t understand the words. The expression was serious, concerned. It was a sort of familiar face like the siren and Toby had been.

 

I must know them.

 

“Shh,” I told them hoping it would make the sad-pain-worry on the face go away. “Shh.”

 

The weight was gone and I was lifted.

 

I was set on something.

 

The lights and siren were closer now.

 

The face was gone, but then it was back.

 

“Shh.” I said and closed my eyes.

 

There was a distant howl that followed me into the dark.

 

. . .

 

It was dark for a very long time after that, but slowly things began to come back to me. My mind grew sharper and I recognized what was going on around me. I was warm and floating. Occasionally I could hear a vibration that wasn’t quite sound, but almost a voice. As time passed in my safe-warm-floating place I realized there were two voices. One was deep and loud always happy, masculine. The other was softer and feminine and it sang. A man and woman I recognized slowly, but was to content, sleeping too often to think on it much.

 

I realized I loved them abruptly while the woman’s voice sang to me. It was a warm feeling that I’d felt too little and I reveled in it. I knew the voices loved me too and I clung to them happily. The warm floaty feeling alway intensified with the woman sang and I knew that somehow this was her way of touching me of taking care of me.

 

When I was aware enough to recognize I had limbs I liked to move hoping they would notice. The first little movement made the voices freeze and then get louder, shouting happy. I began to do it more often whenever I cycled through awareness and sleep. I was forgetting something, but it slipped away just as easily as the voices slipped in.

 

Slowly as I moved my place began to shrink. It wasn’t uncomfortable but I wondered when I would leave. Surely I could. There was a knowledge of more places of being able to leave places. I should be able to, but couldn’t remember why I stayed. The thought slipped like many did even as I became slowly aware of myself.

 

The day I remembered myself fully the warm floaty place began to shrink and squeeze and there was a terrifying feeling of movement and then cold and bright. With my first breath came awareness. I was Karen. I was dead. My car had slid on black ice and went over an embankment. I had died on a snowy day with my elderly dog by my side.

 

And I was _breathing again_.

 

With the realization of life--impossible, improbable--came the worst headache of my life. I didn’t scream there was too much pain and tight to move. There was just more black and my awareness disappeared.

 

. . .

 

The next time I woke up I was a soft bed and looking at a  baby mobile that was made up of shells and colorful bits of glass. It was a nice one I reflected and the slow warm waking kept me from panicking or remembering too much as I examined my surroundings. For some reason my bed was caged in by wooden beams and padded, filled with a soft blanket and pillows. That didn’t make sense, but I felt too safe and content and _familiar_ with everything to feel suspicious.

 

The moment only lasted a few seconds, maybe a minute at the most, but it was part of the long slow build to awareness. I woke more and more over the next few months. Each moment lasting longer and more permanent. As the moments of “Karen” increased I became aware of my memories and of being “Rin” too.

 

Karen was a bewildered adult woman with two dogs who was supposed to be dead. Rin was a happy smiling baby who sometimes was a little too smart with two loving parents she adored.

 

I was, I slowly realized, very much both. I had been Karen for a good twenty-seven years and had no intention of letting her go. But I was also Rin, more prone to tears and not quite as in control of her emotions as Karen. I remembered Karen’s life, as short and filled with problems as it had been, wistfully and remembered the hard won lessons from it. I loved the openness of Rin. She was new and had a life just beginning, filled with possibility. I loved her parents, the voices I’d loved and who had kept me company.

 

I wasn’t stopping with Karen, she was me, but I was happy to step into Rin.

 

By the time I was a year old I had securely integrated both and was ready and a little excited for a new life, even if it came with the restraints of babyhood and upcoming childhood. That was of course when I realized that being Rin was not quite so simple. Apparently life wasn’t done screwing with me.


	2. Introduction Arc: Episode 2

II.

 

Routine in my household was a very set thing. Every morning Yoshiaki, my father, would come and wake me. He would fill the morning with a quiet chatter, right after waking up was the only time he was quiet even if he was never silent, and I would occasionally mumble some baby babble at him to keep him going, carefully marking away his words to practice later. I understood most everything my parents said now and was rapidly increasing my vocabulary, but preferred to keep practicing to myself. It wasn’t from some misplaced sense of perfectionism, but rather I had made the firm decision to surprise them with instead of a first word, to have a first sentence. I remembered how popular the stories of such baby feats had been among my coworkers in my last life and thought they’d appreciate it.

 

After getting me ready, we would head to the kitchen where Tomoko, my mother, would be sitting already dressed in her strange work uniform looking wide awake and ready to go. I liked to entertain the idea that Tomoko was part cyborg, because of how unnaturally awake she was early in the morning. Yoshiaki seemed to agree with the sentiment, giving her the closest to a disgusted look he could manage when he was more given to adoring ones. Tomoko would look unimpressed and we would have breakfast in quiet as Tomoko carried on most of the conversation, a rare position for her, while Yoshiaki and I woke up.

 

By the end of the meal Yoshiaki was usually fully awake and risen to his usual volume and enthusiasm. Tomoko would leave after being given kisses from the both of us and returning them, always going with a soft smile that answered Yoshiaki’s “Have a safe day darling!”. It was an unusually soft expression my mother always reserved for both Yoshiaki and myself. After she departed I would be sat into my high chair to finish waking up as Yoshiaki cleaned the remnants of breakfast.

 

The rest of the day would be spent in small variations of a set list of activities. Some days we would spend mainly in what I’d come to understand was Yoshiaki’s office. I would be settled onto some blankets with soft toys surrounding me while Yoshiaki would go through his manuscripts. The toys, designed for children as they were, weren’t too interesting, instead of playing with them I would mainly listen to Yoshiaki read his work allowed and make comments on it. He would hold whole conversations with himself as he worked on corrections and with me about how unreasonable his publisher was being. Often he would simply read whole passages to me as he wrote in comments at each pause and kept on going. These mornings were less active, but always educational and enjoyable.

 

I learned this way that my father was some kind of travel writer and wrote stories about the places he travelled to following his main characters as they went toexotic locations. They were both informative and entertaining his main character Fuun, a princess in disguise, travelled with her companions around the lands fighting for justice and to eventually retake her place as princess of the land. It was clearly a fantasy story based in real life places, because Yoshiaki liked to tell me about the “rainbow” powers Fuun would use to defeat her enemies.

 

It was entertaining though and in between the actually plot reading he would go over his notes of the places he’d actually visited and I’d learn about places like Nagi Island, Haran Bay, and Keishi. These locations along with my and my parents name and the language they spoke was slowly making me realize I had been reborn in Japan. Though my parents seemed somewhat old fashioned with not a radio or television or even typewriter in sight despite the electric light and kitchen appliances that spoke of modernity. They could, I considered sometimes, be part of that movement that disapproved of television for young children. And Yoshiaki did seem to prefer to keep his writing handwritten and would spend other time when not focused on revisions filling up sheet after sheet with writing always using front and back. I didn’t feel cheated though. I hadn’t had much time for television in my last life and would rather watch something on my laptop with both my dogs piled in my lap for convenience sake when the mood struck me. I was more used to doing without than having those things anyway.

 

When we weren’t focused on his work, Yoshiaki would like to take me on trips. Small ones and never too far from home. Every other week were visits to the local market to stock up on fresh foods in the morning and afternoons we focused on nonperishables. These were always the most exciting trips, with those selling them always ending the interactions with a smile and even a laugh at Yoshiaki. I’d noticed a growing presence of people and a slow relaxation in the sellers that made me suspect that there had been a recent end to some trouble--had I been reborn after a war, an economic depression--something made people wary, but the reason was slowly starting to fade. I also noticed that despite the presence of cash I hadn’t seen a single credit card pass hands. Even in the local farmers market from my other life had started to have hand held card readers for convenience and it really helped them to draw in customers. I marked it up on it just not becoming popular in the area yet. Or maybe they just weren’t as prevalent in Japan as they were becoming where I’d lived. I had never left the country and my only contact with the foreign country was through media. Fantasy stories at that which were hardly an accurate basis for everyday life especially considering they focused on ninjas.

 

Other trips involved small stores for cloth and clothes. For the most part our clothes were well cared for and worn over and over without the need to be replaced. With me growing as I was though I was always the reasons behind trips once my clothes could no longer be let out to fit me. Shoes were the worst for being replaced as there was no way of making them bigger with some creative stitching and patches from tomoko. Occasionally, there were trips for more paper, which always seemed to involved more money than anything else. Yoshiaki always looked a little guilty when he purchased these bundles and I noticed they were treated almost as carefully as fine china and always conserved and reused. This led credence, in my mind, to my theory of a war. I could remember, vaguely, information about paper and rubber being regulated during wars in my original countries past. It would make sense that the same was possible elsewhere if it was a serious enough conflict.

 

Sometimes though we would go to the local park. It was a small thing just a wide expanse of dirt and grass and trees. There was two benches to the side, likely for parents, and some wooden posts of different heights to one side. Not a sandbox or swing set in sight. It didn’t seem like a very popular location and more often than not it was just Yoshiaki and myself. Despite this, or more accurately because of, its unpopularity I loved it. I liked nature, always had, and with our lack of a backyard I’d missed the ready access to it I’d once had. I enjoyed napping in the shade, to Yoshiaki’s amusement, and running around as much as my stumbling pace would allow and taking in the unfamiliar greenery slowly learning its shape to be used to identify it later, to Yoshiaki’s worry. I’d fallen into a few bushes and tripped over a few roots the first few times as I learned my new body. Yoshiaki had been more upset about it than I had, though my new lack of control had led to a tear or to the first few times. Eventually I gained the ability to brush it off.

 

The last way we spent our days was in the house, playing games Yoshiaki made up and with the toys I’d been lovingly given. The best parts of these days were when he would put me in his lap and tell me in an adoring voice about how he and Tomoko had met or about his family, no long dead. In this way I learned the slow and steady way my parents fell in love. About the loud, small woman who’d raised my father on her own whom I was named after. About the man who’d raised her on his own when her mother, a fierce tall woman, a soldier Yoshiaki explained, and left her to him and returned in a coffin. Learning the history of my new family made them real in a way they weren’t when I was first adapting. I was no longer just the daughter of a sad eyed woman and a hard handed man, I was part of a line of children loved by parents who’d raised them through hardships as the center of their worlds. It helped me to settle myself in the presence oddly enough to hear about the past.

 

Lunch, rather back home or occasionally at the park, was always followed by a nap. I had a lot of naps and found that I slept easier and longer than I was used to. By the time I woke up it was either more writing, stories, or playing quietly as Yoshiaki talked to me as he cleaned and readied supper in preparation for Tomoko’s return. Always we greeted my mother with a hug and a kiss to welcome her home, pausing whatever we were doing to go watch her enter. It was a soothing ritual and it was always then that I recognized the tension that Yoshiaki always held when Tomoko wasn’t home. I had yet to learn what my mother actually did or where she worked, but it was these moments that made me believe that it was not something that was necessarily safe. Some nights she came home with bandaged hands adding to the steadily growing collection of small scars. Supper was louder as Yoshiaki handled most of the conversation, but a smile always appeared on Tomoko’s face no matter how tired she was.

 

The rest of the day was spent with Tomoko usually in my room. She was a quieter, but no less appreciated presence than Yoshiaki. She would sit quietly as we “played” and I always made sure to try and actively interact with her babbling at her in an imitation of Yoshiaki in order to keep her smile in place. I didn’t like the sadness that wasn’t far from her eyes when she first returned from work. Yoshiaki and I were usually enough to make it disappear or least be put away for the moment, much like I did with my own. But sometimes it would creep back into her grey eyes. At moments like these I always acted my most childish, stumbling into her lap, babbling nonsense, shoving a toy or book at her and insisting on her attention. Though not as immediate as Yoshiaki. Always, always there was a hint of concern in Tomoko’s face when she looked at me as if she suspected I would disappear before her eyes at any moment. This was almost as concerning as her sadness and made me worry about what exactly had happened in my mother’s life to make her know good things could be taken from you quickly. Overall though I knew my mother was happy with me and Yoshiaki and smiled more than she frowned when around us.

 

The day ended with time settled between both of them as I was relaxed with a bath and a story. Tomoko favored stories of hawks and ninjas and legends, while Yoshiaki could reliably be counted on with one featuring Fuun and her three companions helped by the brave and strong kunoichi Rin-chan. Most nights sleep came easily. Others nightmares, memories really, interrupted them. But these were quickly soothed by small calloused hands with unusual small scars or large gentle ones whose only callous was from a pen.

 

It was a routine and peaceful life. Predictable, but not unpleasant as I learned and grew. I wanted to branch out and learn, but I was content to wait and the routine was pleasant in a way that I thought had more to do with the child part of my brain than anything else.

 

So when my routine changed I knew something was wrong. I woke up to find Yoshiaki was already awake his brown hair pulled back and orderly, dressed fully in black. It was the first sign of something being off. I eyed the unfamiliar clothes, well cared for, but settling in a way that implied they were older and well used and wondered at their sudden presence. No, it was wrong to say that the clothes were the first sign. I groggily thought back to last night when Tomoko had come home. Her smiles had been slower coming than ever and Yoshiaki had accompanied her during our private time. Both had been looking at me and then having a whispered serious conversation. It had been a grim mood that didn’t suit my smiling father and rested heavily, too familiar on my mother than I liked.

 

“No bright clothes today Rin-chan.” Yoshiaki whispered, quiet despite being fully awake. I saw the small black dress he’d brought with him and realized it had to be new. It would fit me and I had never seen it before which meant sometime after Yoshiaki had finished the conversation with Tomoko and they had put me to bed he’d left and bought this. There were matching shoes just as new, small black ones.

 

It was a funeral dress, I realized suddenly recognizing what the black clothes meant. Someone had died. Someone important enough for my parents to break their routine, for them to buy me new clothes despite money constraints, and for Tomoko and Yoshiaki to wear that sad look of loss.

 

As I was dressed and carried out of the room I tried to think of who it could be. Yoshiaki was an orphan, his mother long dead, and without cousins or uncles or aunts. Tomoko’s family could be an option, though they were never spoken of. I’d thought they must not be close or dead. Though I knew personally how despite the issues you had with your family how you can still mourn their loss. Truthfully, I honestly wasn’t sure my parents had friends outside of each other. For all Yoshiaki’s charming smiles and ability to make others laugh we never had visitors and we never visited. Tomoko was another story, for all that she was warm and soft with her family I could recognize that she was more given to being aloof and quiet. Not someone who was easily approachable.

 

The possibility of it being from Tomoko’s family seemed more likely when she took me from Yoshiaki the moment we entered the kitchen and settled me into her lap rather than the high chair. She was dressed in black too, her long brown hair pulled out of her round pale face, showing the purple face tattoos clearly. They were part of the mystery of Tomoko, though I no longer really noticed them. With her hair pulled up in a carefully arranged bun instead of down like usual, the remaining strands framed her face and her cheekbones stood out and with them the thin purple markings I didn’t understand the meaning of. Her grey eyes looked down at me with all the sadness in the world and she held me tight against her, looking almost afraid.

 

I didn’t like it and clung back.

 

The morning was quieter than ever before and Tomoko fed me, rather than letting me feed myself like they had been trying to encourage and I had been stubbornly insisting on. It was a heavy mood and I found myself distressed by it. This time Tomoko didn’t leave afterwards and instead kept ahold of me as she helped one-handedly clean the kitchen. Once it was done we left the house Tomoko holding me and Yoshiaki taking Tomoko’s hand.

 

They were both silent. What’s more the outside was silent. As we walked through it I noticed, bewildered, matching somewhat identical black mourning clothes. We went through places I had never been and I realized the place we lived was much larger than I thought a city rather than a village despite it’s dirt roads. It looked colorful and filled. It looked like a place that would have been as lively and loud as Yoshiaki if not for the subdued silence and all the black.

 

When we got to our destination it was a small, but packed graveyard in the shadow of the mountain I’d only ever seen the side of. The mourners were arranged in neat lines, no seating. Yoshiaki and Tomoko made to settle into the back line, but the were gestured to the front by one of the men in black. The walk to the front was slow. A man who was standing in front of the perfect lines  spotted our approach. He was older than my parent, face just beginning to wrinkle around his eyes to reveal his age despite his still brown hair and goatee. He motioned for us to approach.  Beside him was a woman of similar age her long lighter brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. When we stood in front of him I got a better look at the man and he seemed strangely familiar, especially when he gave them a sad wary sort of smile.

 

“I’m glad to see you here, even if it isn’t for a happy occasion. She would have wanted you here I think.” The man told them and the woman beside him nodded in agreement, she had a similarly serious expression to Tomoko. It softened when she leaned to look at me, the man followed the woman’s gaze and his smile grew more real. Closer now I realized they weren’t quite as old as expected especially with their expressions relaxed. Still a good deal older than my parents and at least ten older than when I’d died. In their very late thirties or early forties. No the fifty they’d looked with grief carving their face into lines.

 

“This is the child then.” The woman said her expression staying soft as she leaned closer. Tomoko tightened her hold on me like she expected I would be taken away. The movement clearly did not go unnoticed despite how miniscule it had to be as the older couple leaned away politely and Yoshiaki let go of Tomoko’s hand to place a comforting arm around her.

 

“Yes, we named her Rin.” Yoshiaki answered, voice subdued. “We owe Mito-sama more than we could ever repay for saving her. Not coming was never an option.”

 

The couple nodded looking thoughtful. This time the man spoke with a smile that made my mind jump around from how familiar it was. “Mito-sama would have been happy to know she was doing so well. She mentioned wanting to visit near the end, but was too weak to leave and her situation did not prevent visitors.”

 

The words were loaded with a meaning I didn’t recognize and it was the second time they’d said that new word. Mito must be a name I supposed. Sama was a suffix, one I associated with lords and ladies from Yoshiaki’s stories not real life. What sort of person was this Mito that she was dubbed what would have been close to “Lady Mito” in my old language if I understood this conversation correctly. And more importantly why did I supposedly owe her my life.

 

The words or maybe the smile helped to relax Tomoko and her grip eased slightly.

 

“Rin-chan is doing very well.” Tomoko said entering the conversation for the first time. “You did not bring your son, Sarutobi-sama?”

 

It was directed at the woman, who gave a slightly regretful smile, and sounded like a statement but was definitely a question. I noted the ‘sama’ added yet again and wondered at who in the world these people were.

 

“Please call me Biwako, Nohara-san.” It could have been just a polite opening, but something about the serious bearing reminded me of Tomoko and I doubted she would have offered the familiarity unless it was sincerely meant. The same as with Tomoko.

 

“Then you may call me Tomoko, Biwako-sama.” My mother offered in return, earning herself a smile.

 

“Asuma-kun isn’t feeling well today.” Biwako explained. “We had only gotten him to sleep late this morning and the iryo-nin said he should be fine now that he’s sleeping. A slight temperature, but we didn’t want it exasperated by bringing him out. Our oldest is watching him right now.”

 

Tomoko nodded and the man, also Sarutobi and that name was also striking a chord in me, turned back to us from his quiet murmurings to Yoshiaki I hadn’t listened to. His smile was still present. It was starting to get annoying. That smile, because I know I knew it, despite never having been to Japan my former life and this being the first time seeing the man in this one. I suppose he could have been famous enough to appear on the news at some point in my last life and that’s why he seemed familiar. An actor maybe or politician?

 

“You’ll be beside Kushina-chan and my teammates.” Sarutobi told them with his soft smile and that was a clear surprise. Tomoko stiffened again and Yoshiaki let out a sharp breath of air and started to speak, only to be cut off. “Please, it is at Mito-sama’s request. Your grandmother was the closest thing to a sister she had once she married and she considered you to be the descendent of that family even if you aren’t officially recognized as such.”

 

The tense moment of silence isn’t helping the niggling sensation of something wrong and something I’m missing, but right on the cusp of realizing that keeps building. The small graveyard is looking almost as familiar, though in a distant sense, as Sarutobi’s face. The smooth simple rectangle markers like something out of a distant memory. In know this place, this man, those names, but I don’t remember why.

 

It clicks as we settle in beside a small crying girl with vibrant blood red hair and a man and woman of age with Sarutobi with identical pinched looks of grief. Resting on the small grave is a single framed photo of a smiling women with thick vibrant red hair. It isn’t the picture of a woman I will later recognize that does it for me, of the name of the red haired girl beside me, or even the mountain filled with three stone faces I know instantly.

 

It’s the last thing Yoshiaki says before we settle in to wait.

 

“Of course Hokage-sama.”

 

Hokage, the Fire Shadow, leader of Village Hidden in the Leaves. The leader of ninjas, shinobi, and Sarutobi is Sarutobi Hiruzen. A face I’m more used to seeing much older and smiling at a blond whisker haired boy who will one day be born to the red haired girl beside us who even now has just been given a monster that was just a story in my last life. Just a story like the one I’m in.

 

The one I’m an important part of.

 

Because my mother has purple facial markings and I’m a girl named Nohara Rin whose agemate is Sarutobi Asuma.

 

I’m in the _Naruto_ manga and I have a death sentence that will send a young boy spiralling into madness that will engulf the world.

 

Before that I’ll be a child soldier in one of the worst wars this war torn and violent damaged world knows.

 

I won’t even live to see my fourteenth birthday.

 

It’s too much. Too much and I start crying the moment the _Third Hokage_ begins his eulogy. A loud sobbing crying that I’ve managed to avoid. I cry throughout the entire funeral despite my parents shushing me. I cry until I’m hiccuping and sick. I let the child part of me take control and I cry with all the mourners that day.

 

Not for Uzumaki Mito and her mysterious connection to me, but for myself and the short life I’m scared of and the war that is unavoidable.

 

I’m Nohara Rin, the girl who only ever died.


End file.
